317

A POET'S APOLOGY.

How little he cares if in shadow or sun

They see him who gaze from the shore!

He looks to the beacon that looms from the reef,
To the rock that is under his lee,

As he drifts on the blast, like a wind-wafted leaf,
O'er the gulfs of the desolate sea.

Thus drifting afar to the dim-vaulted caves
Where life and its ventures are laid,

The dreamers who gaze while we battle the waves,
May see us in sunshine or shade;

Yet true to our course, though our shadow grow dark,
We'll trim our broad sail as before,

And stand by the rudder that governs the bark,

Nor ask how we look from the shore !

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

A Poet's Apology.

`RUTH cut on high in tablets of hewn stone,

TRUTH

Or on great columns gorgeously adorned,

Perchance were left alone,

Passed by and scorned;

But Truth enchased upon a jewel rare

A man would keep, and next his bosom wear.

So, many an hour, I sit and carve my gems
Ten spoiled, for one in purer beauty set:

Not for kings' diadems,

Some amulet

That may be worn o'er hearts that toil and plod, -
Though but one pearl that bears the name of God.

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

WH

The Mowers.

HERE mountains round a lonely dale
Our cottage-roof enclose,

Come night or morn, the hissing pail

With yellow cream o'erflows;
And roused at break of day from sleep,
And cheerly trudging hither —
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the grass together.

The fog drawn up the mountain-side
And scattered flake by flake,
The chasm of blue above grows wide,
And richer blue the lake;

Gay sunlights o'er the hillocks creep,
And join for golden weather-
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the dale together.

The good-wife stirs at five, we know,
The master soon comes round,
And many swaths must lie a-row
Ere breakfast-horn shall sound;
The clover and the fiorin deep,
The grass of silvery feather-
A scythe-sweep and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the dale together.

The noontide brings its welcome rest

Our toil-wet brows to dry;

Anew with merry stave and jest

The shrieking hone we ply.

White falls the brook from steep to steep

Among the purple heather—

A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,

We mow the dale together.

FARM-YARD SONG.

For dial, see, our shadows turn;
Low lies the stately mead;

A scythe, an hour-glass, and an urn-
All flesh is grass, we read.
To-morrow's sky may laugh or weep,
To Heaven we leave it whether -
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We've done our task together.

319

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

Ο

Farm-yard Song.

VER the hills the farm-boy goes,

His shadow lengthened along the land,

A giant staff in a giant hand;

In the poplar tree, above the spring,

The katydid begins to sing;

The early dews are falling;

Into the stone-heap darts the mink;
The swallows skim the river's brink;
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,

66

Cheerily calling,

'Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"

Farther, farther, over the hill,

Faintly calling, calling still,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Into the yard the farmer goes,

With grateful heart, at the close of day;
Harness and chain are hung away;

In the wagon shed stand yoke and plough;
The straw 's in the stack, the hay in the mow,
The cooling dews are falling;-

The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet,

The whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,
His cattle calling,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" While still the cow-boy, far away,

Goes seeking those that have gone astray, —
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Now to her task the milkmaid goes,
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Lowing, pushing, little and great ;
About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,

While the pleasant dews are falling;
The new-milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye;
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When to her task the milkmaid goes,
Soothingly calling, -

"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!"
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool,
And sits and milks in the twilight cool,
Saying, "So! so, boss! so! so!"

To supper at last the farmer goes,
The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed.
Without, the cricket's ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;
The heavy dews are falling.

The housewife's hand has turned the lock:
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;

The household sinks to deep repose;

But still in sleep the farm-boy goes

Singing, calling,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"

And oft the milkmaid in her dreams

Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,

Murmuring, "So, boss! so!"

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

HAUNTED HOUSES.

321

A

Haunted Houses.

LL houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,

A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited the illuminated hall

Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see

The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;

He but perceives what is; while unto me

All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.

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